


This Fragile Mind

by ThroughtheMirrorDarkly



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Aftermath, Depression, Don't Post To Another Site, Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, after the war
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-10-05 06:21:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20484299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThroughtheMirrorDarkly/pseuds/ThroughtheMirrorDarkly
Summary: For some, wars never end. Not really.





	This Fragile Mind

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own anything from Harry Potter. This is purely to challenge myself as a writer.  
Summary: For some, wars never end. Not really.  
Writing Prompt: “I—I can’t stop it. I’m sorry…”  
“It’s okay, it’s okay. Just breathe.  
You don’t have to be sorry for  
anything. I’ve got you.”  
Songs For the Story: “I’ll Be Good” by James Young  
“Can I Exist” by Missio

This Fragile Mind 

By ThroughtheMirrorDarkly

* * *

Harry Potter wasn’t even sure how it happened. A loud noise, the broken cup and then blood dripping down across his palm and he was gone. The strength of his legs abandoned him and sent him sprawling across the floor of his living room. His lungs went rigid in his chest, and his chapped lips parted. He gasped, like a fish out of water but nothing helped. His heart was like thunder, racing wildly inside of him and the pupils of his green eyes were tiny like pinpoints. Sweat dotted his upper lip while he flailed and struggled to get up off the floor. 

He didn’t even hear the door open or see her knelt beside him until she was right there. It was Hermione Granger, one of his oldest and dearest friends. Her brown eyes swam with concern, and she brushed her dark curls out of her face. “Harry, you need to calm down,” she told her, her voice steady and smooth despite the way her hand quaked as she reached out of him. “You need to breathe.” 

“I—I can’t stop it,” Harry gurgled, spittle dribbling out of the corner of his mouth. “I’m sorry.” 

“It’s okay. It’s okay. Just breathe.” Hermione placed on his hands on her chest to help him feel the steadiness of her own breathing. “You don’t have to be sorry for anything,” she told him, gently. “I’ve got you. I promise that I’ve got you.” 

The terrible fit lasted for another ten minutes before his body went slack against the floor. He closed his eyes and buried his hands into face, feeling the tears begin to build up. He felt so helpless and weak, like he wasn’t in control of his body or actions. He had thought after the war—after the Voldemort, then he would be his own man. He would live his own life by his rules, and everything would be well. 

But for some, wars never end. Not really. 

It only took something—a loud noise, a shout, a flash of a spell—to send him spiraling down the rabbit hole and he was suddenly back in the war. Back where fear and terror rained, with the smell of blood in the air and the taste of ash on his tongue. There was no magical cure for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder in the Wizarding World. And all the therapy would require a Mind Walk, which Harry wasn’t about to let happened. He had enough of Occlumency and Legilimency to last him a lifetime, so he had gone into the Muggle World in search of answers there. 

He had been prescribed a medication, but other aspects of his life hadn’t healed. His relationship with Ginny went down the drain. Ron was on the fence, trying to be loyal to both him and Ginny in the aftermath. Mrs. Weasley still tried to invite him for dinner, but he really didn’t want her to meddle and try to mend things. He was declared unfit for an Auror position and his PTSD just gave the Ministry an easy way to deny him. All the advice he got from the bureaucrats trying to be ‘helpful’ was to start a family and have as many heirs as he could. 

He hold himself up in the gloomy Grimmauld Manor to avoid the world. 

He was unsurprised that it was Hermione—strong headed and willful Hermione—to be the one to sent to get his head out of his ass. He dropped his hands from his face and turned to look up at her. “The floors dirty,” he told her, lightly. “You are going to get your dress dirty.” 

“Forget the dress, Harry,” Hermione said, with a light laugh. “I’m more worried about you. Why did you tell no one that it was getting this bad?” 

Harry sighed, heavily. “I just didn’t know what to say.” 

“Something, Harry. Anything!” 

“It—It isn’t that easy. The words—there in my head, all the time. They rattled and jumbled, and sometimes I open my mouth to speak them and my voice just stops working,” Harry responded, his face twisted up with annoyance. He pushed himself clumsily off the ground and into a sitting position, raking his hands through his messy hair. “And then people, they expect me to be strong. They expect me to be happy. To have everything together because I’m the Chosen One, right? I am the one who saved the day, right? Hoorah for the great Hero!” 

“Harry…” Hermione whispered. 

Harry made a disgusted noise in the back of his throat. He shoved himself to his feet and stumbled towards the kitchen to retrieve the broom and dustpan. Many people chided him for using such mundane ways of cleaning instead of magic, but cleaning had long since become a coping mechanism to deal with unpleasant things. A habit he had learned from his time at the Durselys. Hermione followed him only a moment later and lingered in the doorway behind him. 

“Are you still taking your medication?” She asked, quietly. 

“Yes, mom,” he jibbed. 

“Are a panic attack like that you can’t blame me for asking,” she chided him, half-heartedly. She fell silent for a long moment and let him go clean up the mess without comment. It wasn’t until he had fixed up another cup of tea that she decided to break the fragile silence. “You know that it will get better, right? Please tell me you know that.” 

Harry dropped a cube of sugar into the hot tea and then stirred in with more attention than necessary. When he looked up, he had a boyish grin on his face, and he gave a light shrug of his shoulder. “Of course, they will,” he replied. He said the words and they tasted numb on his tongue. “I’ll be fine before you know it.” 

He said the words all the time, in different ways and variations. 

But he never didn’t really believe them. 

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> author's note:
> 
> This turned out a lot more depressing than I originally intended, but I think my own thoughts and experiencing with depression  
colored my perceptive on the situation and I am happy with how it turned out regardless of the sad ending. I hope that you all  
enjoy it.


End file.
